Chapter 37
Summer: A Broad
Note: The descriptions and accounts in these stories are fictional and do not portray any actual people or events
Sadly, there was no one even remotely resembling Elizabeth Ashcroft Knowles on the plane from DFW to LHR. Both my seat mates in coach had apparently, very apparently, had something with garlic, lots of garlic, to eat and then snored all the way over. I landed at Heathrow, and following the directions in the email from Abelard Peters HR people, I made my way through customs and the terminal where my flight had landed to the bus station, and then caught a bus to Victoria (bus) station, and then took another bus to Wingham, where there was what was mysteriously referred to as "a house block reserved" for contract employees like me.
I "enquired at the office" as the email suggested, only to discover it closed. The letter gave some complicated instructions on how to get to nearby Aylesham and how convenient it was to then catch buses and trains to anywhere from there. Right! I soon learned it was a pain in the arse, as they say here. It was not difficult to get to the station, and there were lots of trains and buses, but they took at least an hour to get anywhere, even longer if you had to change lines.
As I circled the building looking for the manager, I noticed it was as old as any structure on the ESU campus. Historic, but not particularly attractive. The town reminded me a little of Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia, except it was much smaller, and everyone drove on the wrong side of the street, so all the traffic signs looked weird, too. There were plenty of trees and shrubs and hedges, and some very narrow streets in the middle of town. I guess it doesn't really matter what side you drive on if the street is only wide enough for one car. I did a circle search around the address where I presumed I was supposed to stay, and wondered how many bedrooms there were and if I was expected to share one. I also fretted about how long it might take to get to and from the tunnel embarkation point.
I had circled about a four by four block area by this time, and arrived back at my departure point, pleased to find the door open, indicating that perhaps the office was too. A chubby, bearded guy in his 60's sat behind the desk. He smiled, displaying the worst looking and most yellowed teeth I had seen since my chain smoking teacher Miss Kuratko in fourth grade.
"Roberts, are you?"
"Robbie Roberts, yes." I smiled weakly.
'Welcome to Wingham. Here's your package." He handed me an odd sized envelope about three quarters of an inch thick, full of paper.
"You are in number four, around the back." He then turned back to magazine he was reading. If my reverse reading skills were on, it was called 'What Hi-Fi?'
I realized he had already tuned me out completely. I looked in the envelope and discovered a key on a brass ring, and decided to make my way 'around back' and look, slipping on my backpack and carrying my suitcase and duffle. Number four proved to be up a narrow staircase, with a little rain awning above the door.
The key worked after a few tries, and first impressions were not good. The smell of stale cigarette smoke permeated everything. I think the walls were once white, but now they were a very light shade of urine yellow remarkably like Husky's target hydration level chart color that was assigned by the ESU football strength and conditioning coach. The place made my eyes itch.
I dropped my stuff near the door and searched for windows to open. The ones I found were mostly painted shut, but I retrieved my handy dandy Swiss Army knife from my suitcase and set to work. Despite being early June, it was cool, in sharp contrast to Texas summer heat. A draft developed, and I hoped it would be able to dissipate the smell soon. I made a mental note to search for a store that sold Febreze, or whatever the English equivalent might be.
I sat near the window that seemed to be functioning as an intake, and therefore upwind from the maximum odor point, and took all the stuff out of the envelope. The chair and table might euphemistically be described as 'distressed', but in the manner that makes used things cost less, not antique things cost more. The cloth lamp shade, once perhaps white linen, now matched the color of the walls. Ewww!
There was of course the inevitable and almost unreadable thick photocopy of a policy and procedures manual, both for Groupe Eurotunnel SE for the tunnel overall, and a section for contractors of Tier Group like me. According the front cover, I was now responsible for knowing the contents in toto backwards and forwards, lest my employment be terminated. There was a check on Lloyd's Bank for my first two weeks of per diem expenses, as in future I would receive per diem funds in my pay envelope. My dad had given me the short course on modern business travel, so my phone was activated and I had a separate but 'backstopped' debit card that worked in Britain and Europe. I had to remember to transfer funds to the account as required. I soon realized how spoiled I was with the ESU campus and its pervasive Wi-Fi installation that provided speedy and reliable connections in every nook and cranny, as that was certainly not the case here. My phone hadn't displayed the Wi-Fi or 4G icons since leaving the airport.
Google maps told me there was no grocer nearby, but there were many in Canterbury. A foray into the kitchen revealed a refrigerator smaller than Kevin's dorm room unit, and sans the icemaker, so Febreze was still top of my shopping list. Further delving into the envelope produced a temporary paper ID pass with a note attached that a permanent photo ID would be generated at the required orientation session to be held the day after tomorrow at Folkestone. It might take me that long to get there using the scheduled buses!
I finally found a "Read Me First" sheet, conveniently located at the back of the stack of stuff. It assuaged my transportation fears a bit, as apparently there was a contracted for shuttle bus service that ran several times per day between Sandwich Bay and Folkestone, stopping at several places along the route where employees were lodged. That made more sense, and should take a lot less time, even with all those stops. The last thing I found was a perfumed pink envelope addressed in a flowing hand. It looked very promising, but read:
"Robbie Roberts: We hope you enjoy your time this summer in our English countryside. Unfortunately, we will not be able have you spend time with our family as we hoped. You should read the section of the employee handbook on nepotism and fraternization, but the short story is that Abelard and I have come under much unwanted scrutiny, both by the press and the legal profession, because of some of our weekend parties and tennis matches. It seems a few couples involved in hotly contested and very unpleasant marriages and divorce actions have cited things that happened at our parties as key incidents, including two former employees who allege damage to their marriages as a result of their employment, plus improper termination. Of course, these suits have no merit whatsoever, but it will take time for them to be resolved. We are pulling into our shells, so to speak, to ride out the storm. The twins are traveling abroad, well removed from paparazzi and unwanted attention, and Abelard and I will have to keep our own counsel for the next few months. Missing you, Belinda Hatch-Peters."
Shit and double shit! My summer plans for many exciting weekends with the twins just evaporated and disappeared. Fizz, pop!
